


nothing fucks with my baby

by dontstraytoofar



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: Comfort, F/F, Fluff, like EXTREME comfort, we love soft witch gfs yes we do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 10:49:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15970796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontstraytoofar/pseuds/dontstraytoofar
Summary: Protectiveness for Misty rages through Cordelia’s veins like wildfire; pity the witch who gets caught in her flame.





	nothing fucks with my baby

**Author's Note:**

> hey its me 6 years late to the party that is cordelia and misty topped with a fic based on hoziers new song ! the lesbian witch energy is real today sjdsdk but anyways i recently got into ahs, finished coven, and then well, this happened. 
> 
> enjoy! ur comments and kudos are super appreciated xx

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

Cordelia never knew where it sprouted from.

Maybe her naivety, maybe it was Misty’s natural radiance and light that made Cordelia so protective of her. Wanting to shield her lover from the darkness of the world they lived in, to selfishly use her powers to cast never ending safety spells over her, wards of protection and love that would see to Misty never being ripped from her again.

Maybe it’s in her nature, to hold things she loves close to her. To flick her wrist and make Madison’s throat close up when she jokingly calls Misty a “swamp rat” at the dinner table, to rest her hand protectively on Misty’s hip when they cook together, or work in the gardens and greenhouse, to kiss her behind her ear and listen warmly to the light giggle it earns her.

Maybe it sprouted the first-time Fiona ever saw what was happening between the two, maybe it’s a love and possessiveness bought on by a mother’s neglect, her disapproval.

Cordelia remembers the way Fiona stood next to her in the kitchen, back when she was blinded. She was cutting vegetables, slowly, proving to herself and the rest of the coven that she could _do_ this, that she was capable.

Fiona leant back against the table, Cordelia felt the silence tighten inside of her throat like water, choking her. She sighed, putting down the knife and staring to where she thought her mother’s face was.

 “Yes?”

She heard Fiona sigh, and it felt as if her hand was raised up in the air to touch her, caress her cheek. But Cordelia doesn’t feel a thing, she focuses on the light shadows she can see. Rippling back and forth as Fiona lights a cigarette.

 “And here I thought you couldn’t do any worse than a fucking witch hunter.”

Cordelia fisted her hands on top of the table, she felt a rage coil at the base of her stomach as she clenched her jaw. Fiona muttered mostly to herself, taking a drag and blowing it out as she laughed bitterly.

 “The Swamp Witch. Jesus Christ.”

There was an urge in Cordelia, her fingers flinched and the knife on the table moved slightly, responding to Cordelia’s magic. Fiona never noticed, instead, snuffed out her cigarette on the table and said something about how this Coven is falling apart, day by day, piece by piece. And Cordelia was smack damn at the centre of it.

To this day, Cordelia still regrets not burying the knife deep into her mother’s chest.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

When Cordelia’s protective actions come out, it’s hard not to notice.

Misty always raises an adorable eyebrow up in her girlfriend’s direction when Cordelia does them. And she could pretend to hate it, but by gods does it warm up her spine with light when Delia touches her like that. So, she quirks her eyebrow up, muddling herbs as the Supreme keeps her hand softly at her waist as she busies herself with her own pastes and concoctions on the table of the greenhouse. Misty tilts her head lightly with a soft smile, hip checking the other woman to get her attention.

 “What is up with that? I ain’t going nowhere, darlin’. Promise.”

Cordelia shrugs, trying to hide her smile with how easy it is to be with Misty. How easy it is to exist in the same space. She’s not going to say, in this moment of warmth, that sometimes she feels like Misty will fall away in her hands again. Crumble to ashes. Dust to dust.

 “No reason. Oh, do we have kale around here? I swore I planted some a couple weeks ago.”

Misty giggles lightly, watching how her girlfriend tries to diverge the topic, but indulges her just the same.

 “Kale? What would’ya need that for?”

Cordelia ducks, looking under the table, and with a triumphant “Ah hah!” comes back up with a pot of overgrown green leaves, plucking one and delicately tearing it up, sprinkling it into Misty’s mix.

 “You’re making a blemish paste for Zoe, right baby?”

Misty bites her lip, trying to hide her smile as she nods, dazed as her normal knowledge on plants leaves her mind in favour of listening to her lovers’ voice. Will she _ever_ be over Cordelia speaking to her like that?

 “Kale’s a natural antioxidant, also linked to its slang term meaning of ‘money’, funnily enough. Invokes richness, so to speak.”

Misty’s whole body softens, studying the other woman and still biting her lip, smiling now. Cordelia focuses back on her own task of pruning flowers, but flushes under Misty’s stare that she can feel as she speaks.  And Misty _loves_ her, she loves how when Cordelia speaks about what she knows, a type of golden aura emits from her. Like she held the sun in her chest, Misty thinks.

 “What?”

Misty shrugs, Cordelia’s hand has settled back onto hip almost like second nature. “Nothin’, just you speakin’ all witchy to me is kinda hot.”

Cordelia chuckles, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. “Get back to work, dork.”

Misty laughs, a teasing smile on her lips. And the rest of the day is spent working together in tandem, at some points Cordelia reaches up to harvest something from a hanging plant, and Misty is left to drown in how effortlessly beautiful Cordelia is. The brown of her eyes, the softness of her skin, the way she glows from being the Supreme.

She glowed before that though, before realising her power; Misty was just the only one who saw it.

Sometimes, maybe most times, Misty is content to lean against a table, mindlessly playing with the rings on her fingers as she drinks everything in that is Cordelia Goode.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

Other times, she remembers what hell felt like.

Which isn’t always. When Cordelia isn’t occupying her mind, Misty’s brain flutters from music lyrics to new spells she’s learning to how the house she’s in is finally starting to feel like a home.

But some nights, it’s _hell._ It’s a repeat of what she saw and how she felt and gods, sometimes she remembers how Cordelia called her back. She remembers how she woke with a gasp and clutched to Cordelia’s shirt and cried and cried and said _I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to, Delia. T-there was so much blood an’ he kept making me do it an-_

She can still feel how the Supreme picked her up in her arms, like her body weighed nothing, hushing her all the way up the stair case with a protective and possessive hold. Swallowing tears of her own to comfort the woman in her arms. Misty could see over Cordelia’s shoulder the rest of the witches looking on, and feeling a shame well up at the bottom of her belly, hid her face in Cordelia’s hair; where her neck met her jawline.

Misty breathed in. Listened to how The Supreme softly spoke, how she told her that: “It’s okay baby, you’re safe.” Cordelia smelt of lemongrass and rain; and Misty wanted to drown in her.

When she remembers it, Hell; it comes in waves, small ones, but waves nonetheless.

When it happens this time, she’s back at her swamp; the spring warmth covering her skin and settling in her bones. She loves it, being back in her element. And every time Cordelia takes time off from her responsibilities to take them down there, just for Misty, the necromancer can feel herself fall just that impossibly harder for her.

She’s currently humming under her breath, voice soft as she kneels at the edge of the water; gathering clay and dirt into a woven basket; to teach the new students how to make her infamous, healing mud recipe. The water laps at her knees, and she smiles down at her hands when she hears Cordelia behind her on the bank shyly, but softly, join her singing.

That’s when it hits.

It was the ripple of the water, reflecting the sun and hitting her eyes. It’s _instant,_ and she gasps, falling forward onto her hands into the shallow water up to her wrists. Blood, classroom, kill. Repeat. _No, no no don’t make me do it again. Please._ Blood, screaming, kill. Repeat. The knife drives down into its body, _tearing,_ and Misty screws her eyes shut and feels her tears meet her jaw as she cries.

“Misty? Sweetheart, open your eyes. It’s okay-”

She can’t breathe, she can’t _breathe_ and all she sees is the frog split open before her and she’s sobbing but she can still feel the mud between her finger tips; and her love holding her to her chest and rocking her. Cordelia’s arms envelop her protectively, pressing her lips to the top of her head and squeezing her own eyes shut, trying to stop the tears.

She wants to swallow Misty’s pain, she wants to lock it away inside of herself and take it so she doesn’t have to. Cordelia wonders if she has the strength left to do it, sometimes it feels like her body is filled to the brim with what she can endure.

(Even if she doesn’t have the room though, for Misty, she knows she’d force it down until it killed her.)

 “Misty, you’re not there. You’re here, with me, in the swamp, okay? Follow my voice, baby. Please-“

She’s still lost, and she curls closer to Cordelia and grabs to the front of her tight dress; one that’s covered in mud now. Her eyes are glazed over, and she’s here, but she’s _there,_ too.

 “Delia? I don’ wanna…I don’t wanna hurt it. Please, please don’t make me hurt it.”

Misty sobs harder, burying her tear stained cheeks into Cordelia’s neck and it’s all too familiar and all too _real_ and Cordelia, the Supreme witch, feels _powerless._ Powerless as Misty grabs to the nape of her neck desperately, wanting to drown herself in the woman holding her.

The mud coats their legs, cooling and making both women shiver. Cordelia starts to mutter incantations, calming Latin words that invoke peace, a chant that creates a barrier of calm energy around Misty’s body. She mutters it into the top of Misty’s head, her hair soft against her lips, cradling and rocking their bodies.

They sit there, Cordelia doesn’t know how long she holds her body, but Misty slowly calms. Her breathing evening out, hand at the front of Cordelia’s dress loosening, tears being wiped away by Cordelia as she softly speaks; tucking a stray curl of Misty’s hair behind her ear.

 “Hey,”

Misty opens her eyes, blinks once, twice, staring at Cordelia’s collarbone as she gathers her bearings. She splays her palm across her lover’s chest, feels her skin, she centres herself in reality and Misty then realises just how _bad_ her breakdown was. She shakes her head, voice struggling to find the words.

It’s not fair, it’s not _fair_ she makes Cordelia feel it all, all the pain, the heartache, alongside her.

 “I’m…I’m sorry I-I...”

She goes to stand, but Cordelia quickly pulls her back down, hushing her when Misty simply just squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head, hair moving with the action.

 “Misty, Misty. Shh.”

Cordelia has to hold to Misty’s wrists to stop her from squirming, heart calling out to her so strongly in that moment. But all she can do is gently coax her, pouring all of her love into her voice and touch as Misty protests. The younger witch is shaking her head and biting her lip with the effort of swallowing the ache that sometimes feels like it lives inside of her, makes its home in her body.

But then Misty remembers the sound of Cordelia’s laugh, eyes lit up by sun light, and it feels like it never existed at all.  

(How many times has she died now? Misty has tasted death like one would taste a lover’s lips; but she doesn’t want _Cordelia_ to taste like death, because Cordelia tastes like cherry blossoms and honey.)

 “No! No, I’m hurtin’ you. E-Everytime I get pulled back there, I’m hurtin’ you, Delia. I-I can’t…”

Misty opens her eyes, she’s holding to Cordelia’s hands like they tethered her.

 “I can’t hurt you, I _won’t_ hurt you.”

Cordelia looks back at her, a questioning frown on her face. Like the idea that Misty could ever harm her was otherworldly, which it is.

 “What? Misty, you’re not hurting me. Baby,” Cordelia ducks her head to catch Misty’s gaze, breaking her staring contest with the lining of Cordelia’s neck.

 “You could never hurt me. Okay? Never.”

Misty swallows, Cordelia’s grip on her hands is loose now, but she’s still her anchor to the earth. She’s like that a lot; Cordelia shines like the sun and sometimes Misty feels like she’s stuck in her gravity.

She shuffles closer to the older woman, mud sticking to her skin like glue. “Never?”

Cordelia smiles lightly, bringing Misty in for a soft kiss, making her gasp like she was breathing new life into her.

 “Never. Now come on, I’m covered in swamp mud and my legs have gone numb.”

The words make Misty laugh softly, wiping under her eyes with the sleeve of her thin shirt. She looks so young in that moment, Cordelia thinks, beautiful and young and _bright_ and like she hasn’t seen hell’s front doors or even glimpsed at the face of death.

 “No need to be scared of a little mud, Delia. Natural remedy, ‘member?”

Cordelia rolls her eyes fondly and stands up from the ground, holding her hand out for her girlfriend. And Misty looks up smiling, taking it gratefully. She almost melts at the caring way Cordelia then wipes her thumb across her cheek, cleaning the spot of dirt that sat there.

They don’t talk about what happened, and not in the bad way, more like because Cordelia knows exactly what to say, do, that it doesn’t need to be bought up again.

Misty’s thankful for that, because on the drive home with mud covered car seats Cordelia wordlessly turns the radio up, the Fleetwood Mac CD that permanently lives there filling the car up with music and Misty feels like she could cry. As she loves Cordelia so much that sometimes she doesn’t have the words to define it.

Instead, Misty leans over the gear stick, moving Cordelia’s wavy blonde hair out of the way and over her shoulder softly, kissing just above the other woman’s jawline and pouring everything she feels, but can’t find the words for, into the touch of her lips against her skin.

Cordelia smiles, shutting her eyes briefly in bliss before focusing back on the sunset streaked road.

Like she can hear every word.

 

 

-

 

 

 


End file.
